Without
by hscrooney
Summary: An old man wanders a desert. A woman awakes with no memory. A boy lives something strange. And beneath it all, a thing begins to grow.
1. Not An Island

**Chapter 1: Not An Island**

The sun rose from behind silver-tipped clouds. They soon began to fade, as the glowing sphere of suffocating heat traced an arc across the sky.

There was a desert below the sun- a scorched and starving one, one in which the simple idea of life, the notion, was corrupted and turned to dust. To sand, rather- it was far more than conceivable that the sand had once been life, or alive, but any theories offered up mattered less than the fact it existed.

The desert was empty. Wide breaths of nothing, not even a change in altitude. Except for a tent. The tent was grey, and drab, and small. It could seem to be more of a hastily constructed lean-to than a tent, but a closer inspection would reveal that it was made for that very purpose- the purpose of catching people off guard. That was useless now. Inside of the tent there lay a man. The man's face was weathered and beaten, but how much of that was age and how much of that was the sun was up for debate. He was wearing a bright orange cloak, seemingly made of a patchwork of material. There was a dark purple patch near the bottom. As the sun rose, and shined blinding rays through the minuscule holes in the tent, the man awoke. He reached for the canteen, rusted and green, sitting next to him, to find that it was empty. The man exited the tent by wriggling out from under it.

The man began to walk. He was wearing leather sandals, but the sand still burned his feat. They were too calloused to mind. He strode ahead, cutting through the sand with remarkable fluidity and confidence. He'd walked this path before, many times. After about an hour, the man reached a hole, filled with water. Well, to call it a hole would be a bit of a disservice. It was barely more than three feet across, barely a puddle. But it was good enough for the man, who began to fill up his canteen. Once he had, a flash of light occurred from within the bottle. The water was now the most clean looking water you had ever seen. The man drank the entire canteen, refilled it, and began the long trek back to the tent.

On his way there, the man heard a rustling. He looked around himself. After a moment of silence, he reached into the beaten leather holster at his side, and withdrew a pen. Unlike everything around it, the pen was remarkably shiny, and looked to be new. The man uncapped it, and it transformed in his hand. Where the pen had once stood was a sword, brown in color. The sword was dull, but still significantly better looking than anything around it. The man wielded the sword. He knew how to do this- he'd known how to do this. The man adjusted his shoulders and reached an equilibrium of balance. He was scared, but too tired to care. After a minute of silence, the man recapped the sword. Back it went in the holster.

He arrived back at the tent and sat down inside of it. He pulled a golden plate out of a bag next to him. A shattered golden cup lay next to it. The man gripped the plate, and a large amount of blue pancakes appeared on the plate. The man tore in. After he had eaten, he looked outside. The sun was almost directly overhead. He began to dig into the sand underneath him, for a minute or two, until he pulled out a bottle of fine wine. It was old, ancient even. It had been old when the man bought it, years and years ago. He chuckled to himself, grimly, at the thought. He could barely remember his own mother's face, yet could recall that memory easily. The man opened the bottle. "Happy anniversary, wise girl". He said under his breath. A tear began to trace its way down his face as he opened the locket that hung from his chest, and looked at the picture that lay inside.


	2. Forged In Fire

**AN: Sup, sorry for not doing this earlier. You can expect updates Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, but typically late at night. PLEASE review, honestly, this is my first fic in 3 yrs and the other one sucked. (I hope this one doesn't). And now, enjoy. **

**Forged In Fire**

The walls were black, and sleek. They lined the top, the bottom, and the sides, all uniform, all unblemished. They had been there when the earth rose, or so it seemed, and they would be there when it crashed, wailing, into the sun. They all flew connectively into one another to form a box of sorts. Yes, box was the right word; there was no entrance or exit, and there was such crushing finality in the way they looked that any poor devil trapped within would know that there was no way out.

And speak of the devil- the poor one indeed. A boy- a man, rather, lay on the bottom one of these walls. A dragon roared in his sleeping mind, but was quickly covered by those walls, those sleek walls. They made up many of his dreams now. The man awoke. It had been so long since he'd had a memory. Any memory, even a corrupted one. The man thought back. 50 or so sleeps ago, that was the last time. He sighed. He hadn't been able to hold on to anything specific, just the vague aroma of fire. He sat up, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes again. Fire- smoke- dragons- people- the man's eyes flew open. And then it was forgotten. The man cursed and stood up. The outside world was an elusive beast, one which almost never showed itself. He'd wasted his opportunity.

There was nothing to do, as usual. He didn't need to eat, or even breathe, though he did as habit. That was new, the man thought. New to the box- but that was not new to the man. He was pretty sure that he'd spent longer in the box then outside of it- but he was never sure. Time was funny in the box- the absence of any way to tell it made the man have to use sleeps to measure. He knew it was imperfect- he'd done the math. If he really had spent this much time inside of the box he'd be dead. But it kept him sane. He began his daily routine. As mundane as it may sound, routine kept his mind from falling to pieces. He started with 50 pushups. Pushups and other easily accessible exercises were easy to remember, and helped to break the monotony. He had noticed that his muscles were getting bigger, so at least that could change. As the man exercised according to his routine, breaking it up once in a while so his brain would not turn to mush in his head. He counted to a thousand. He'd pushed the limits of it before- counting to a million, ten million; but a hundred million had broken him. He'd vowed to never go that high again. He went back to the push ups.

And then something happened. A cry echoed, and the smell of sand emenated throuought the cube. The man felt chilled to the bone. And then, he began to remember.

**_Coming Thursday: Die Hard The Hunter_**

**AN: Just a thank you to mylifeisogre for the kind words. **


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